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20



20.

"What is it?" I had asked. "What's bothering you?"

You glanced at me, as if wondering if you should confide in me or not. That had hurt a little, because I had been extremely honest to you, like an open book; you could've asked me anything, and I wouldn't hesitate for a heartbeat, and answer truthfully.

Your internal conflict was resolved, and you spoke carefully, "Since when have you. . . been, um, suicidal?"

My heart slowly deflated. Out of all the questions in the world, why did you have to ask me that one?

In all fairness though, I suppose you must've been curious and worried about what happened that day. I appreciated the fact that you hadn't questioned anything that time, so I felt like I owed you an explanation.

Your eyes were restlessly roaming on my face, trying to discern my reaction. You looked so scared and worried, as if you were walking on eggshells around me.

I sighed. "I don't remember since when."

"Can I ask you more questions about why you're suicidal? Of course, you don't have to answer if you don't want to." You still looked cautiously at me, which told me that you were the best person to talk to, about this.

"You don't have to look so worried, it doesn't suit your face," I joked, trying to make your face less tense, and you obliged, smiling lightly, "and, you can ask me anything, I wouldn't mind it, and I promise that I'll answer honestly."

"Okay, so, why are you suicidal?"

I thought for a while, trying to come up with a reasonably rational response. "Everyone hates me," I said bluntly, because those three words basically summed up my entire life.

"Not true," you had immediately said, "I don't hate you, neither does the dog over there."

I watched the dog in question walk around a red tunnelled slide a few times, before climbing in and making itself comfortable for the night. I smiled.

"Let me phrase that differently," I said, "no one likes me."

"Again, not true, because I like you." Your prompt reply made me laugh a little.

"That makes one person who likes me, and I appreciate that. But before I met you, no one liked me, I was alone all the time, and just genuinely fed up of life. So, yeah, I guess that answers your question," I said.

You had nodded in understanding. "Do you still feel like that? Do you still feel like. . . not existing anymore?"

The words, 'Yes, I do,' almost slipped out of my mouth. But that wasn't the truth.

Ever since meeting you, and falling in love with you, I hadn't felt like that. My life now had a purpose, a meaning, and there was joy in it, even if it was just a little. Everyday, I woke up willingly, looking forward to seeing you again, and spending time with you.

None of that would be possible if I died.

You were, in a way, the reason of my life, cause of my existence.

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